


A Loser In Boxer Shorts

by typosity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bucky barnes to the rescue, descriptions of fire and cuts n stuff, don't forget to change the batteries in ur fire alarms kids, vague mentions of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 00:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typosity/pseuds/typosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's caught in a fire. The half naked guy from upstairs helps him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Loser In Boxer Shorts

Burning. Something's burning.

Steve's delirious and assumes it’s the heating switching on, because the heating usually makes the apartment smell like burning rubber. They’d never got around to actually getting someone in to look at it. It’s the persistence and the height of the smell, though, that keeps him from turning over and going back to sleep.

His room’s dark, save for the moonlight filtering through the window. After glancing at the clock, he sees that it’s three in the morning.

“Sam?” he calls groggily, because Sam’s a fucking awful cook and it could be likely that he’s burnt whatever late night snack he’s concocted to a crisp. Enough to make Steve's bedroom smell like an oven after thanksgiving with a Kitchen Nightmares reject. “Sam!”

With a heaving sigh, he kicks the bed covers off to the side, his chest suddenly scorching in another of his hot flushes. He staggers to his bedroom door, planning to cross the hallway to the bathroom and throw some cool water on his face.

He doesn't get that far. He hadn't noticed the wisps of smoke coming in from beneath the door.

His heart lodges in his throat when he sees it. The apartment, glowing bright orange as large flames lick at everything he lays his eyes upon. Black smoke billows from the very tips of each flame, clouding the hallway so much that it’s difficult to see anything but _fire_. He squints against the sting of smoke blowing into his eyes, up his nose, straight into his mouth. He winces and wrenches his hand back when he notices the door handle scalding the inside of his palm.

It gets harder to pull in a single breath, his heart rate climbing. Sounds around him disappear in favor of blood rushing by his ears. His eyes flicker back and forth for a way out but all he can see is red, destroying all of his belongings and memories and—

“Sam! Sam, where are you?” he bellows, because if Steve’s exit is blocked, then so is Sam’s. He can't imagine a life without Sam. His chest tightens with each shallow breath, asthmatic lungs begging him to calm down and leave the panic for when he's safe. Black spots climb up the edges of his vision, his lungs already like two useless rocks in his chest.

He stumbles back into his bedroom and slams the door with tender fingertips, suddenly thankful he'd picked the room furthest away from the front of the apartment. He stuffs everything within grabbing distance into the duffel bag he'd draped over his desk chair. Photos, his laptop, sketches. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, through fear or smoke drying them up, he can't tell. The tears that fall leave clear tracks through faint dusting of soot covering his face.

While hoisting the bag up over his shoulders, he throws himself against the window, trying with shaky hands to get it to open up for him. This window was one of few in the apartment that has always, always been faulty. He wishes he'd complained more. 

A wave of cold sweat dries on his skin, a bombardment of thoughts passing through his head all at once. He's stuck. His lungs squeeze and constrict painfully, breaths escaping in a wheeze as the flames latch onto the carpet on his bedroom floor.

"Come _on!_ "

Steve pounds violently on the glass, fogged up by his close to excruciating breathing and coughing and the condensation caused by the sheer _heat_ of everything around him. He presses a fist to his mouth in an attempt to keep the smoke out, resting his forehead to the window with the drag of exhaustion pulling his eyes closed. Over the crackling and the thudding of belongings falling as they burn, he can barely make out a voice through the window.

“Hey, pal! Can you open the window?” Steve could vomit with the burst of hope that blossoms in his chest.

He lifts his head, squinting through the window to get a look at who's at the other side. Through the condensation, he sees nothing but a silhouette. 

“It’s stuck!” Steve replies, loud as possible. His eyes sting unbearably. The heat clouding up his room has him panting, his body plastered up against the window. He doesn't dare look over his shoulder again in fear of what he might see.

“Wait! Wait here, don’t move!” comes the voice again, clearly male. Then he’s gone, just as quick as he came. Steve's throat closes up at the loss. The loss of everything. His entire body wracks with the effort of trying to simply _breathe_ , but he thinks it’s a lost cause now. He’s going to die here, he’s going to die and Sam’s going to die and—

“Get back!” He hears, but he can't comply, because he’ll be openly handing himself over to the fire and like hell would he ever do that. He was born a stubborn asshole and he'll die the same. So, he leans to the side just in time for a dumbbell to come sailing through the window, disappearing into the fire at his back with a loud bang. As the air rushes in from outside, the black smoke collides with it and floods out at the same time, pulling the fire closer.

He feels himself trembling with adrenaline as an arm comes in through the window to push the rest of the glass through, everything blurring into heat and _come here, buddy, I got you,_  angry flames and pain and the scraping of glass against his arms and legs as he's dragged through the gaping hole in the window. He wants to sleep.

“Stay awake for me!” It's far away, the voice, and his feet never get the chance to touch the floor again. His airway is damn near closed completely, everything hazing in and out of conscious as his flimsy body is jostled back and forth. The thudding of footsteps. Fire escape. All he can smell and taste is ash.

There's a stuttered panting at his ear and for once, it's not a sound coming from Steve.

The noises escaping him are dry and heaving. The desire to throw up is about as overwhelming as his desire to sleep. His fingers grip onto burning hot shoulders in an attempt to focus on something other than the fact that he's drowning.

“S’gonna be okay. Stay with me, buddy,” he can still hear, but the tone is strained. Not as reassuring as it would be if he could just catch his breath. 

He’s being moved again and there’s noise and screaming and crying in the distance. The yelp he lets out is ripped from him, burning hot and bloody in the back of his dry throat. He can't even pinpoint where the pain is.

“Help him, I haven't heard him breathe—”

“Sir, your arm, I’m going to have to insist you come with m—”

“I know, I‘m coming now, I’m coming. Help him, alright?”

Steve can hear crinkling as the voices fade out. It surrounds his body and shoulders, loud enough to distract him from the screaming. There’s something on his face, then, blowing a seemingly endless stream of funny smelling air into his mouth and nose. He sucks in the suddenly available fresh air desperately and shallowly. There are still voices, but he can’t hear what they’re saying over the loud bellowing of his name.

It causes him to open his eyes just halfway, his sight blurred and gritty, eyes dry and stinging, but he'd know that voice anywhere and he'd cry if he had the tears to do so.

“Sam,” he chokes, a swell of relief sticking to the back of his throat. He sees the blob of his friend come into his space for just a second before arms are wrapping around him and holding him close. “I thought you were—"

“I couldn’t get to you, Steve, I couldn’t get through the fire. I was gonna come ‘round and get you from the escape, but they wouldn’t fuckin’ let me go and—Shit, Steve, I’m so, so sorry.”

He reaches up to grip onto Sam’s frayed shirt, the two of them bowing together, just breathing. Relief strips Steve of any residue adrenaline, his bones turning to jello in Sam's arms.

“I thought—your pancakes again,” Steve croaks, his voice nothing but a wisp. He tastes the coppery blood in the back of his throat, but it’s worth it when he hears Sam’s wet laughter.

“Thought I’d gone and lost you. _God_. Should’ve known you’d never stay down.”

“Take a lot more to get rid of me,” Steve says, pausing only to heave uncomfortably into his oxygen mask. Sam rubs at his back. "Too late to mention our fire alarm needs new batteries?"

Sam laughs, pulling Steve back in and holding him tight. "So damn glad you're alright."

There’s a pause in which Sam steps back and looks away, squinting his eyes. He seems to catch what he's looking for, because he turns to give Steve's aching shoulder a squeeze, bending over with a smile.

“I’ll be right back, okay? ‘M gonna go and give Cobain a fuckin’ kiss. On the mouth, just kiss him on his whole mouth.”

Steve quickly puts two and two together and assumes that the Cobain guy from upstairs was the one who’d pulled him out. For that, Steve wants to kiss him on the mouth, too.

As Sam goes, Steve can finally take in his surroundings. Blurred families huddled together at the back of the various ambulances at the scene. People he knows, clinging to each other and crying, some in obvious states of shock. The fire department are working on putting out the roaring flames. Steve blinks hard, finding it difficult to open up his eyes again.

“Hey,” somebody says, and Steve looks up to see a petite female standing over him. She smiles as she reaches out to readjust the mask on his face, since Sam’d disrupted it during their reunion. “You can sleep. I'll keep an eye on your vitals, give you a tap if you try and flatline on us.”

“Thank you,” Steve rasps. He can't stop thinking about all the people whose lives have just been pulled from under them, including his own life. His mind races a mile a second, but sleep takes him under and quickly silences it.

—

There's a steading beeping, followed by a soft, relaxing whooshing noise.

His dreams were tinted red and bright and _frightening_ , so frightening that the pain of waking up is the better choice by far. His body is heavy where it lays, the all too familiar sensation of a brick on his chest and lungs ever present, but he’s alive.

He inhales a little easier than before, the steady stream of air and medication still flowing generously. He’s thankful for that.

“Steve?” he hears Sam, and he physically can’t keep himself from smiling even if it hurts. There's a soft, ragged chuckle. “There you are, asshole. Welcome back to the land of the livin’.”

His hand rises sluggishly to the mask covering his mouth and nose to pull it back and speak, but a warm one intercepts it, placing it back at his side. Steve has yet to open his eyes, but Sam’s voice sounds as exhausted and frazzled as he feels. There's a song playing in the room, but Steve can't put a name to it.

“Is,” he tries, having to stop and attempt to swallow before continuing. “Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone got out. Can’t say for sure if they got out without being traumatized for life, but they got out. Nobody died in there.”

“Who got me out?” he asks, because he can’t remember who Sam had mentioned before, and he wants to know. Needs to know. Sam’s hand rests at Steve’s forearm, quiet reassurance.

“His name's Bucky, lives up in 6C. The fuckin’ dick who blares Nirvana at five in the morning on work days,” Sam says, and Steve exhales his amusement. He knows exactly who that is, despite not ever having had a face or a name to blame for all the noise. The two of them simply referred to him as _the Cobain guy_.

“Is he okay?” Steve asks, because he’ll never forgive himself if Bucky went and died, somehow because of him. Sam hums.

“Screwed up his arm pretty bad, burns everywhere, but he was outta the woods when I went to visit him. Skin grafts, smoke inhalation, he's about as lucky as you are. Looks beat up as fuck, but he ain’t dead, ‘s for sure.”

“If… if you see him, if or when he's allowed, can you,” Steve starts, taking a few steadying breaths. He wants to thank Bucky, every day starting today. “Can you tell’im to come see me?”

Steve opens an eye to glance at Sam, who's grinning.

“He’s already been asking about you, wanted to see how you were doing. We lost you for a second, but it’s all right now. You’re here and you’re safe.”

“I’ll never take you for granted again, Wilson,” Steve rasps, offering up a half smile. He’s never been more grateful to be alive, the heat of the fire closing in on him still all too real in his head.

“Sap. Tell me that when we’re out searchin’ for a new apartment,” Sam says with a challenging raise of his eyebrow. He has scrapes and slightly discolored burns on his face and arms, but he looks showered and as healthy as he ever did before if not tired, his dark complexion glowing underneath the fluorescents.

Steve groans at that, because the first time they’d gone apartment hunting, they were near punching each other by the end of each viewing. It'd proven to be a true test of their friendship. Steve’d always wanted a good view of New York, hates to be closed in, but Sam likes privacy. They’d bickered until they compromised and Steve isn’t looking forward to going through it all over again.

Sam laughs, giving Steve’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Get some sleep, Steve-O, you look like hell. If I see Bucky, I’ll tell him you wanna see him.”

—

It’s about a day and a half later when there’s a soft knock on the door. The nurses, doctors, and Sam don't knock. Steve has to pry his eyes open and blink hard to get his bearings and remember where he is. Hospital. Fire. He glances down at his hand where it lays limply against the sheets. It feels sore beneath the haze of medication, and he notices a plaster cast covering his wrist and palm. Must've broken something. When the door knocks once again, it’s a little quieter.

“Come in,” Steve says, still sounding like he's swallowed a bag of nails, but better than before. He sniffles, wincing at how dry and enflamed the back of nose is. The door creaks as it opens, ever so slowly, and it’s a man who shuffles in. He sheepishly purses his lips as he approaches the bed, taking the seat available at Steve’s side.

He looks about as terrible as Steve probably does. The arm that Steve can see has cuts on top of cuts, small butterfly bandages covering them up and holding them closed from the side of his hand, right up to his elbow. There’s a gash on his cheek and his left arm is encased in a foam sling against his chest. He has scrubs instead of his own clothes.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, and Steve has to forcefully push aside a stab of memory. _Come here, buddy, I got you._

“Y’scared your friend shitless, hope you know,” he continues, a lopsided smirk on his face. “Don’t let him know you know, but he was out there crying his heart out for a while. They wouldn’t let him see you 'til you were stable.”

“You’re Bucky,” Steve breathes when it clicks, his chest swelling with anxiety. What if he looks at Steve now and wonders why he’d bothered to save somebody so blatantly ill, even before the accident? What if—

“That’d be me,” Bucky says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. He has a glazed look in his steely blue eyes, from what Steve assumes to be medication for his pain. “Not exactly your typical knight in shining armor, more like a loser in boxer shorts, but I think I did okay. Right, Steve?”

Sam must've given Bucky his name.

Steve nods jerkily and he feels like an ass when his already bloodshot eyes start to fill with tears, the pressure in his chest only growing. Feels even worse when they spill over and the look on Bucky’s face grows concerned at the sight.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, lifting a trembling hand to swipe at his cheek. Hates himself for crying. Bucky leans forward, wincing slightly as he puts pressure on his slinged arm, and rests his hand against Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay, really,” he says. His head bows, tongue swiping across his lower lip. “I keep—ah, I keep seein’ your face in my dreams, as weird as that sounds. Is that weird?”

“No. God, no. I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say other than thank you. He doesn’t know how to thank Bucky enough for what he’s done.

“Don’t be. You gave me a fuckin’ fright, though, man. I woke up and the fire was so close already, woke up in goddamn agony. Turns out my arm was fucked even before I was conscious. Smoke inhalation ain't all it's cracked up to be, either. 'M swearing off cigarettes, probably. And alcohol, maybe. Definitely never touchin' a sleeping pill again in my life, though. Gonna invest in some pyjamas, too.”

“How did you even,” Steve starts, coughing softly. “How did you get me out if you were—”

“Adrenaline, I guess. Army teaches you a few things.” Bucky chuckles, puffing out a scratchy breath that blows his hair upwards. “I live above you, as you probably know. So, I go haulin’ ass down the side of the fire escape like I'm some naked Batman or something. Heard you bangin’ away at that window, didn't think I could leave you there without dying of guilt.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with a soft groan. “Didn’t know what to do, mind, ‘specially since the window was jammed. Good thing your neighbor’s was unlocked, it was pure luck that the first thing I grabbed was heavier than even _you_ were.”

“I don’t know how to say thank you,” Steve says, because he can still see all the bandages on Bucky and he knows the only reason they’re there is because of him. Bucky'd used his own arm to push the glass aside, just so it’d hurt Steve less to get out. He's never been so useless and grateful in all his life.

“You just did,” Bucky replies, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. It looks singed at the ends, chocolate brown and reaching just below his ears. He’s smiling as he peeks at Steve through his eyelashes. “Plus, Sam already gave me a smacker for gettin’ you out.”

“He really did that? On the mouth?”

“Oh, yeah. Grabbed my face and everything. Real romantic.”

They share a laugh; Steve’s sounding more like a pathetic wheeze than anything, Bucky heaving a painful sounding cough into his fist. He's never appreciated a perfect stranger as much as he does Bucky, in this very moment.

“I owe you one of those, too. But really,” Steve continues, huffing as his amusement subsides. “How could I possibly thank you for that? Dinner seems trivial, coffee even more so, you deserve a damn car. Or a yacht.”

Steve's testing the waters and he knows it. He can't deny that Bucky's handsome and just about his type. The easygoing nature of Bucky's smile helps him forget the whole ordeal for a minute, and that's enough.

“Now what'd I do with a yacht in the middle of the city? Dinner’s good. Great, even,” Bucky says, his eyebrow quirking like he's testing Steve just the same. “If... you’re comin’ with me, of course.”

Steve's swallows back the lump in his throat as he bites at the inside of his cheek, an embarrassed flush of heat travelling up his spine.

“If you want me to. I owe you my life."

"I do, and I'd rather you just owe me that dinner," Bucky says, then pauses, a brazen look on his face. "Or would you prefer to call it a date?" 

There's a sharp prickle at the back of Steve's neck as the hairs stand on end. He can barely look at the teasing, flirtatious look on Bucky's face without curling his fingers into the sheets covering his battered body. The warmth filling his cheeks reminds him of the burn of the fire, but he shoves the memory down with force, because Bucky's head is tilted and he looks beautiful and like trash simultaneously as he waits for Steve's reply.

"I'll call it a date if you do."

"Then it's a date."

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a long time, so I just allowed myself to type and this is what became of it. I don't usually write in this sort of tense because it's difficult for me to remember I'm doing it, but ohp, it's done now. Any mistakes (and tense issues if there are any) are all on me. 
> 
> tumblr: subastianstan


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